She ran around to the driver’s door and got in. The keys still dangled from the ignition. She slammed the door shut and caught herself just as she was about to give the engine some gas before turning the key.
Can’t flood it, she told herself.
She took a breath.
She turned the key.
Fitful clicks. The idiot lights flashed on.
“Oh, come on,” she said. “Start, you big piece of . . .”
She rammed her foot down on the accelerator, and the car snapped to life, the engine roaring.
Okay, she thought. Now if I can just get this suburban nightmare out of the ditch. She tried to go forward, but the wheels were pinned, and she saw a spray of mud shoot up into the air. She tried reverse, and the car backed out of the ditch. She gunned it, flooring the accelerator, until the wagon backed up onto the road.
She shifted into forward and steered down the street, in the same direction taken by the van.
The air buffeted her, blowing into her eyes, sending her hair swirling. Where are you? she thought. If that van had turned, she could easily miss it.
She ran a yellow light that threatened to slow her. Then a red one. And she wasn’t going to stop for a cop.
Then—just ahead—she saw something. She drove faster down another block. It was the van.
“Thank you,” she muttered.
The van was stopped at a light. Just when Kyle was only a block away, the light changed to green and the driver turned.
“Damn!” Kyle said.
She took the corner on two wheels, both of them screeching. She leaned to the side, right into a chunk of window glass.
The van took another corner. But this time when Kyle got to the same corner, the van was gone. “What?” she said.
She kept on going, thinking, How could it have just disappeared? It wasn’t parked on the street. It must have turned—right away—at the next intersection. But then she passed an alleyway and happened to look down the narrow strip that cut across to another block.
And she saw the van.
She cut the steering wheel hard, pushing the wagon as fast as it could go. She was into the alley before she wondered if the obese car would fit. Maybe it will get stuck, she thought. Maybe the darn car’s too wide for the alley.
But it careened down the alley—barely fitting, picking up garbage cans and boxes along the way, scattering them in front like the cowcatcher of a train. She saw sparks flying from the side where the car scraped the wall of the building . . .the warehouse.
This is some kind of industrial place, she thought. Lots of big, dark buildings.
Something about that bothered her. What was here? What was—?
She rocketed out of the alleyway, sending the garbage cans careening across the street. And now the van was close, just there, just ahead.
“I got you, sucker,” she said. And then . . . more quietly, “I’m coming, Andy. Just . . . hang . . . on.”
Chucky tightened his grip around Andy’s neck.
He moved the blade from the side to just under Andy’s chin. When Andy gulped, he felt his Adam’s apple rubbing against the blade.
“Say your prayers, Andy. It’s chanting time.”
I can’t move, Andy thought. I’ll just have to let him do this. He heard Chucky say those words again, dumb words that made Andy feel dizzy . . . sick.
“Ade due, Damballa, Ade kisalla, ade . . .”
Then the back windows filled with light. It blinded Andy, and it blinded Chucky. He blinked. The blade moved from Andy’s neck a bit.
The lights—really bright lights—flashed on and off, on and off. Andy couldn’t see the car, couldn’t see who was driving.
The lights flashed off again, and he saw Kyle, holding the steering wheel of the station wagon like a crazy woman.
Chucky saw her too. “Damn it!” he said. Kyle started blasting her horn. “The bitch is too late, Andy,” Chucky cackled. “Too late.”
He shot Kyle the middle finger.
And then he turned back to Andy.
Kyle passed the van, pushing the wagon as fast as she could. She drove abreast of the driver and yelled to him.
“Pull over!”
The driver gave her a look as if she were an escaped mental patient. “Pull over!” she repeated.
The van driver picked up speed.
No way, buster, she thought. She floored her pedal and threw the wagon in front of the van, cutting it off. The van hit its brakes, screeching. Kyle stopped the wagon just before it went flying onto the sidewalk.
She jumped out of the car and was met by the driver, who was about six-two, with one mighty displeased puss on him.
Kyle was running to the back of the van when he grabbed her arm and squeezed it with sufficient force to stop her dead. “Whoa! Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“Let me go!” Kyle yelled at him. She tried to pull away, but the man just tightened his gorilla grip.
“What is the matter with you? Are you crazy, or . . .”
Right, she thought. I’m crazy. She gave him a quick kick to a knee.
Her arm was freed instantly, and she ran to the back of the van.
The door was open.
The back of the van was empty.
No. Please . . . Kyle turned and looked around. She saw Andy, still carrying Chucky on his back. They were running back to the buildings, the warehouses.
The driver started coming for her.
Kyle screamed out the boy’s name. “Andy!” And ran after them. While the driver yelled at her, “You crazy brat!”
She kept her eyes on Andy, now in darkness, now catching a bit of light from a naked light bulb by a door. Chucky’s taking him someplace, she knew. He knows where he’s going, as if . . .
She heard something moving, up near the top of a building. It was the heavy clanking of machinery, moving back and forth, following a repetitive rhythm. She kept running, while she looked up.
And she saw a giant Good Guy. A monster-sized Good Guy, looking down at her, waving at her.
Bye-bye, Kyle. You’ll never catch me. I’m home, babe. This is my place.
Her foot got caught in a crack on the street, and she fell, grunting, slamming her elbows hard against the ground. She landed in a puddle that sprayed her with muddy water.
A few gritty drops landed on her lips, and she could taste them. She looked up.
Just in time to see Andy disappear down an alley.
Right under the sign that said, Play Pals Toys. She jumped to her feet and started after them.
26
“Just keep moving, Andy boy. Just keep those little legs of yours pumping.”
Andy nodded. This is where he was born, he thought. This is the place where Chucky came from.
And then he thought, No. Chucky didn’t really come from here. He came from someplace else. Someplace evil.
“Now, cut down here, sport. Move it.”
Andy turned. His back and his neck ached. Chucky rode him like a pony, kicking at his sides, telling him where to go. And always the knife jiggled at Andy’s throat.
But when Andy turned down the alleyway, he heard sounds. A truck’s engine.
And voices.
“All right. Stop. Right here.” Chucky gave him a kick. “And back up, over to the corner.”
Andy backed into the corner of the building. While he stood in the darkness, Chucky could lean out and peer down the alleyway.
“Yeah,” he said. “We can get in there . . . in case anyone’s following us.”
Andy leaned a bit forward until he could see the truck. A machine was dumping boxes into the truck.
Boxes of Good Guys.
One last box tumbled in, and then the workmen pulled down the sliding door, sealing the back of the truck. One of the men ran around to the front, to the driver’s seat. Andy heard the engine start. The other worker turned a key, and the metal door on the factory entrance began coming down.
Slowly . . .
> “All right!” Chucky hissed. “This is it.”
The other man hurried to the truck’s cab. Andy heard the man laugh. The truck roared away, making a big turn.
“Move it!” Chucky yelled. “Move it, you little creep.”
Andy ran for the loading doorway leading inside the factory. As he got to the door; he noticed how slowly it was coming down. He stopped at the steps leading up to the loading platform and the door. I don’t want to go in here, he thought.
Then Chucky kicked him. “Inside,” he said.
Andy nodded and took a breath. The knife was always on his skin, always touching his neck.
He walked into the building.
They went inside! Kyle also saw the truck disappearing down the block.
And, from too far away, she saw the great metal door to the warehouse gliding shut.
I’m not going to make it, she thought.
No way.
Chucky gave Andy a sharp kick—the runt learns fast—and like a good little horse, the boy stopped.
Because, Chucky thought, I got to see this.
All around them were mountains of dolls, hundreds of plastic faces, hundreds of flaming redheads who just wanted to play. The boxes towered above him, in piles stacked like buildings, with alleyways and small roads crisscrossing the warehouse floor.
They must be doing pretty good with all these Good Guys. Maybe—after this is all over—I’ll work on getting a piece of the action. Wouldn’t that be a rip? he thought.
He jiggled the blade against Andy’s neck. “We’re home, sport.”
Chucky looked back at the stacks of dolls. If only I could command them, he thought. Make them all come to life and work for me. Now, wouldn’t that be something?
He leaned closer to Andy. “And it’s time to play.” He rapped the back of Andy’s head with the handle of the switchblade, hard as he could, just above the brain stem. It doesn’t kill them—it just knocks them out real fast.
Chucky jumped off as Andy fell to the ground.
Now, he thought, we won’t be disturbed. And nobody will make a big deal about finding a Good Guy doll here . . . even if it is all smashed into a thousand pieces.
Must have been a manufacturing mistake.
It happens.
He stuck the knife in the back of his Good Guy coveralls and grabbed Andy’s body and turned him over.
“Close your eyes and count to seven. When you wake, you’ll be in heaven.”
The boy was out cold. Won’t even know what hit him, Chucky thought. He looked around at the stacks of boxes that surrounded him. “This is it, world,” he laughed. “From now on, no more Mr. Good Guy.”
He leaned forward.
His movement felt so smooth, so natural. Must be getting used to this little body . . . this little doll’s body.
He placed his hand on Andy’s forehead.
“Ade due Damballa . . . ,” he whispered. He heard a machine in the back. Probably just another conveyor belt. “Great Damballa, give me the power, I beg of you.”
There was a crack of thunder, and he smiled.
“Give me the power . . . ,” he whispered again.
She ran full out, watching the door glide shut.
I’ll never make it, Kyle thought. Never.
She got to the steps and bounded up them three at a time. A lightning flash appeared from nowhere, and startled, she jumped away from her shadow on the warehouse wall.
The door was nearly shut.
About a foot left.
“Stop,” she said. And as another dull thud of thunder boomed just overhead, Kyle rolled to the ground and spun her way to the closing door.
I’ll either roll right through, she thought, or I’ll get stuck and it will crush me.
A belt loop on her jeans got caught on a bump—a nail. Her roll was stopped as the she watched the door creak down another inch.
“No!” she yelled. She fiddled at her butt, trying to free the loop. It popped off, and with a terrible grunt, she threw herself through the crack.
The top of the closing door scraped against her shoulder blades, but it didn’t stop her. She rolled inside and heard the door slam shut.
Sealing her in.
Chucky raised his voice to be heard. After all, there was so much thunder and lightning. So much. I feel your presence, he thought. You are here with me.
Chucky screamed out his chant. “Leveau mercier du bois chaloitte, secoise entienne mais pois de mote.”
And again, even louder, as the thunder and lightning rumbled through the warehouse, echoing off the walls, from the dark corners.
He repeated the chant one more time.
The last time.
The thunder and lightning stopped.
Andy opened his eyes.
He didn’t see anyone.
Where’s Chucky? What’s happened to him?
He felt the pain at the back of his skull. It throbbed, flashing on and off, like one of those blinking lights used to mark holes in the road.
Where’s Chucky? he thought.
Then—a thought. It’s happened.
It’s happened. We swapped souls.
And I’m Chucky.
I’m a doll and . . .
Something plopped on Andy’s forehead. Another plop, on his cheek. It ran down to his lip.
He tasted the salty, sweet taste of blood. He reached up and tried to catch the next drop.
Then Andy saw that he still had his own hand. It was his hand reaching up, a human hand.
I’m not a doll.
But Chucky’s hand caught the drop. Andy twisted on the floor to get a look at Chucky.
His nose was bleeding again. Overflowing with blood that was dripping onto the ground. Andy saw the terrible way Chucky looked at his hand, looked at the blood.
He looks so confused, Andy thought.
Confused because . . . he’s supposed to be me. It didn’t work. It didn’t work . . . because he’s . . .
Too late.
Andy watched Chucky’s face twist and turn, the plastic flesh rippling, the glass eyes shining, wide. Chucky slowly raised his fist into the air and filled the warehouse with his voice, screaming, “Noooooooooo!”
Andy tried to slide away, despite his throbbing head. I just want to lie down, he thought. I don’t want any more pain.
Chucky turned and fixed him with his glassy eyes.
“You little shit!” He took a step toward Andy. “Do you realize . . .” He screamed the word as loudly as Andy’s mom had when he broke the sugar bowl. “. . . what you’ve done? Do you”—another step—“know what you’ve done to me?”
Andy kept trying to slide backward. He bumped into something. He turned and looked at the stack of Good Guy dolls.
“It’s too late!” Chucky yelled. “I’ve spent too much time in this body! I’m trapped in here.”
Andy watched as Chucky dug around in the back of his Good Guy coveralls. He watched him pull the switchblade out. Andy heard the latch click and the blade pop out. “And you’re trapped”—Chucky gestured at the warehouse—“in here . . . with me!”
Andy tried to stand up, but he was frozen. There didn’t seem to be any place to go. And his head hurt so much.
Then the boxes exploded from behind him, dozens of them, tumbling down on Chucky. A few bounced on Andy, smacking his head, crashing into his legs. But Chucky was buried.
And he heard a voice.
Kyle.
Yelling at him from above.
“Run, Andy. Get up and run!”
Kyle! She’s here. Just her voice was enough to get Andy scrambling to his feet, stepping onto the Good Guys in their plastic cases. He looked around for Kyle. He whispered her name.
Much too quietly for her to hear, he knew. He just wanted to hear the sound himself.
“Kyle?” He kept looking around. He finally saw her hurrying down a ladder from above. She was yelling at him, “Come on.”
Andy ran toward her, clambering over the fallen b
oxes and then turning down another alleyway, past another wall of Good Guys.
“Come on,” Kyle said, reaching the floor, waiting for him. Andy ran as hard as he could, even though his head still hurt and he felt sore all over. He pumped with his hands, thinking, I’m almost next to Kyle. And we can get out of here and leave Chucky and all the others behind.
Kyle’s hand reached out to him. “That’s a boy.” She smiled.
He took her hand, and she pulled him, running, nearly dragging him off his feet, flying down the aisles of Good Guys. Andy turned once and watched them, looked at the faces watching him.
He told himself not to do that again.
“There’s got to be another way out of here,” Kyle said. “Some side door or something. And . . .”
But every turn Kyle took brought them down another alleyway, to another wall of Good Guys.
Like a maze, Andy thought. He knew there were some mazes you just couldn’t ever get out of.
No matter how long you tried.
They came to an intersection. Kyle stopped. Andy saw her bite her lip. She looked up one alley, then another. Then she looked at Andy. “This way,” she said, pulling him to the left.
But Andy knew she didn’t have any idea where to go. We’re lost in a maze, he thought.
He ran behind Kyle now, growing tired. He heard a sound, a machine noise ahead of them. There was something ahead, something . . .
The wall exploded.
And Chucky leaped at him from behind a wall of Good Guy dolls. He grabbed Andy around the ankles.
“No!” Andy called to Kyle.
Kyle turned and saw him as he fell, hard to the concrete floor.
It won’t take him long, Andy knew. Just a quick cut at my neck. That’s all it will take. He wants me dead now.
Andy turned over just in time to see Chucky crawl on top of him with the knife, moving fast now, too fast for anyone to do anything.
But Kyle had taken a giant step toward Andy, and she kicked Chucky in his butt.
It was a good kick, Andy thought.
No, a great kick, he thought, as he watched Chucky go sailing into the air, over the stacks of dolls.
Child’s Play 2 Page 18